“As you say.” Verbeux carried on and left the massive bedchamber.
Jean-Marc stared upward at the lush, bronze satin draperies that formed an extravagant bed canopy. This bed had been a gift from his father, Prince Georges, and in place when Jean-Marc arrived in London with Désirée. He found it over ornate, but still recognized its dark, Jacobean mystery.
“Mon dieu,” he said aloud, giving vent to his frustration in ringing tones. “I am not a parent, have never been a parent, and probably never will be a parent. Why must I play the role of a parent with my graceless half sister?” Because, he thought, since Uncle Louis—formerly considered next in line for the throne—since he had slipped from favor, Jean-Marc’s father had decided he’d rather put his bastard son on the throne than the daughter for whom he had neither respect nor particular affection. And Prince Georges had seized the idea of a London Season for Désirée as an excuse to put Jean-Marc before eyes that should start to respect him as the Chosen. No matter that he scarcely knew his half sister and she seemed disinclined to consider him as other than an unpleasant stranger with the authority to give her orders.
With luck Miss Smiles would refuse Verbeux’s ridiculous idea and insist she could not go to Windsor today.
On the other hand, would it be so bad if she accepted? Ordinary she might be, but she had courage and ingenuity. He liked those attributes in anyone, and in a woman he found them particularly charming. If nothing else, it might divert him from his concerns if he could somehow watch her without drawing attention to his interest.
Verbeux returned. “Half an hour,” he said.
“Drat,” Jean-Marc responded, because it was expected of him. “I hate being made to wait.”
“Miss Smiles will not stay,” Verbeux said.
Jean-Marc rose from the bed. “What can you be talking about? She won’t stay? You mean she won’t come with us to Windsor?”
“She’ll go to Windsor. Won’t last here. The Princess is difficult.”
“So you keep reminding me. That girl’s boots are old. They need replacing. She’ll need a good many things replaced.”
“The Princess?”
Jean-Marc’s temper grew exceedingly thin. “I refer to Miss Smiles. While she attends to Désirée’s wardrobe, she must also attend to her own. You will help me devise a suitable manner in which to suggest this, Verbeux. I rather think that for all her unusual forwardness in approaching me, Miss Smiles has pride and might be embarrassed at my telling her she needs finer ensembles in order to be with Désirée in public.”
“In public?”
“That’s what I said. In public. At all these routs and balls and musicales and the entire round of boring events.”
Verbeux fell back a step, his usually serious expression transformed to one of amazement. “A spinster nobody? Escort a princess?”
“I hope they won’t be longer than half an hour,” Jean-Marc said, avoiding Verbeux’s eyes, “I have company awaiting me at Riverside.”
When he did look at Verbeux again there was no doubt the man still awaited a response to his former questions. “Yes, damn it, a spinster nobody will escort Désirée. And I shall escort the pair of them. I will not, however, stand around as if I were her mama—who could have been sent with her, I may add.”
“Couldn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Princess Marie. A good woman who dares not cross her husband.”
Verbeux knew too much. But at least he was unlikely to gossip.
“Coach is being brought around.”
“Thank you,” Jean-Marc said. “Make sure Cook knows we won’t be eating here this evening. But she should prepare something particularly splendid for dinner tomorrow. We’ll have a guest to impress.”
“Miss Smiles?”
“Certainly, Miss Smiles.”
“She is to be impressed? A companion?”
Honesty was usually the best foil with Verbeux. “I need that woman. If she must be pampered into remaining here, so be it. You will tell Cook.”
“Time Cook was supervised. You need a wife.”
“I need peace, Verbeux. Enough of this interference. I think I shall sit on the box with the coachman.”
Verbeux rolled his eyes.
“Regardless of your opinion, I shall sit with the coachman.”
“Too much of a stir. People might talk. Might say you don’t like the Princess.”
“I shall do—” Unfortunately Verbeux had a point. “I agree. Don’t take advantage of that. It doesn’t mean I’m weakening. I’m going downstairs.”
At least he could escape once they got to Riverside. He’d be amicable until then and perhaps if he attempted to become closer to Désirée, she would be less obdurate. That was what he would do.
Miss Smiles, her bonnet firmly in place, stood in the foyer. And a bright creature she was, too. The yellow outfit suited her and was of good enough quality. With the addition of a few…No, no, he’d have Verbeux tell her yellow was pleasing and she should have another dress and pelisse in the same color. A yellow ball gown! Something to show off her—to show off her best features. That would be just the thing.
The Count, Meg decided, appeared even more formidable than when they’d first met. Dressed in a dark blue coat, buff breeches and riding boots, he trailed a black cloak over one shoulder and carried a crop. He stared at her, examined her. A glittery quality made his eyes almost fearsome. “Are you well, My Lord?” Perhaps that was it. He was ill and desperate for assistance with his sister because he could not manage alone. Oh, she did hope that was not the case.
Jean-Marc frowned, then wondered how long he’d stood only steps away and stared at Miss Smiles. She was so…feminine. Naturally feminine and without any silly affectations. That’s what drew him to her. She had none of the annoying little habits—intended to beguile but guaranteed to bore—so commonly used by the women he knew. “I’m quite well, thank you. I have a great deal on my mind. Are you making progress with Princess Désirée? Where is she, by the way? Of course, gone to find a cloak or some such thing, I suppose.”
“No.”
“No? You mean she hasn’t gone for something warmer?”
She would do everything in her power to keep her position. She had to. Wait till she told Sibyl how their fortunes were changed. Meg winced. Wait until she told Sibyl they must live separately until the end of the Season, that the Count insisted Meg become part of his household while Sibyl was to remain at Number 7.
“My sister,” the Count said, somewhat more sharply. “Did she return to her rooms for something?”
“I can’t say as to that. She may have done so. But she chose to go to the coach direct, rather than wait for me.” The Princess was cold and withdrawn, but at least she hadn’t continued to pretend she spoke no English.
This opportunity to remove the yoke of responsibility from his shoulders should not slip away, thought Jean-Marc. “She’s shy,” he said. “I know she will come to consider you her closest friend.”
“She told me she has no friends at all.”
“As I said, you are likely to become her best friend.” Sarcasm was a poor trait, but he was oppressed. “The coach awaits. We’d better join my sister.”
“The coach isn’t here yet. Princess Désirée went out to the mews, to the stables.”
Princess Désirée would spend private and probably unpleasant time with her half brother later. “I see. I think you will enjoy the drive to Windsor. We’ll pass the castle on the way and Riverside is only a short distance beyond. Next time you come down we shall take you riding.”
“I have never been on a horse. I don’t even have suitable clothing. I shall watch.”
He stifled a retort that she would do as she was told. Rather, he said, “I want you to feel you can come to me with any questions about dealing with Désirée. I am certain that once she is sure of you, she will be a joy to instruct and assist. But, even then, I will always be available to help you.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
She sighed, definitely sighed. Did that mean she intended to fulfil her commission and was grateful for his offer, or that she didn’t expect to be with them long enough to seek help?
“No thanks are necessary,” Jean-Marc said. Her reticule was overlarge and bulged. He could not help but wonder what it contained. “I shall do what family loyalty demands. And, to be frank, I am very pleased with my selection of you as an able assistant. You, Miss Smiles, show signs of being more than able.”
“Thank you, My Lord.” Perhaps she was really to get the chance she needed, a chance to find an agreeable, well-fixed husband who was not eligible enough to capture a bride considered a real prize. There must be such a man. Surely there was just one of them who would be pleased to marry a person who, although not a beauty, had a certain mystery about her. Oh, surely. And, after all, when he was no longer intrigued by her mystery, he would discover himself attached to a rather comfortable sort of person. Well, mostly comfortable when she wasn’t preoccupied with one of the many miraculous and intriguing new subjects she would always wish to pursue.
And Sibyl could only be an added bonus. After all, until Meg and her husband married Sibyl off to someone suitably deserving, they would have the joy of her company.
“Miss Smiles?”
She jumped. “Yes?”
Now he had frightened her. “Are you a daydreamer?”
“Absolutely not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I simply wondered.” She was very direct, he must say. And the dashed odd thing about it was that he enjoyed her lack of guile. He said, “You didn’t hear me tell you the coach is here now.”
She looked at the arm he extended to her and hesitatingly placed her hand there. A silent butler opened the front door and stood back, bowing, showing thin silver hair slicked back over his scalp.
“Thank you, Rench,” Count Etranger said. “Please see to it that rooms are made ready for Miss Smiles in the Princess’s wing.”
“As you say,” the butler said.
The Count swung on his cloak and tucked his riding crop beneath his arm. He covered Meg’s hand in a most solicitous manner.
He was only being polite—fiddle. Wouldn’t it be nice if he actually found her appealing? Would it? Yes, it would. He was the most formidably handsome man she had ever seen. Mature.
“Let us take our time on the steps,” he said. “They are steep and I shouldn’t like you to fall.”
Mature. Charming. Appealing. Desirable. Meg’s breath fought, apparently unsure whether it was supposed to go in or out. Count Etranger was positively—edible. Yes, she’d heard that term used by some of the young ladies for whom she’d sewn when they were preparing for their Seasons. Edible. They descended the steps.
Jean-Marc thought he felt her shiver.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “Just a moment.” He removed a glove and touched his warm fingers to her face. Such a soft cheek, and she watched his face with concentration that was disarming. “No, you are not warm enough at all. That will not do. Let’s get you into the coach and find a blanket.”
Swooning would not be at all the thing, Meg thought. She wasn’t a silly young girl who was likely to buckle at the knee from proximity to a man who caused some very unusual sensations in some very unusual places for her to consider having sensations at all.
Her knees felt decidedly wobbly.
“Here we go,” Count Etranger said, smiling down at her, showing off those devilish dimples. They progressed to the flagway at a stately pace. “Mon dieu,” he said, and sounded so angry. “That girl will be taught to behave.”
Meg’s heart thudded. So she wasn’t the only one who considered Princess Désirée a most terrible challenge. But the Count had been less than honest and she did not care for that.
Showing his temper at its worst could send the young lady fleeing across the square, Jean-Marc thought. “Princess Désirée has obviously forgotten her manners,” he said. “She has settled on this side. We shall have to walk into the street to get in, but no matter. Come, I shall help you.”
The coachman was already on his way to the street. He arrived at the door just in time to open it and place the steps.
Jean-Marc drew Miss Smiles to his side while he leaned in. “Désirée,” he said, “what can you be thinking of? Why did you ignore our approach and make it necessary for Miss Smiles to walk in the street? Why did you not move to this side?”
“For a companion? Pah.”
“Désirée,” he said very quietly, “you and I shall talk—alone—at Riverside. Meanwhile, you will have a care with your tongue, hmm?”
Her response was to lower her eyes. Poor, graceless creature. He recognized how misery as much as mutiny caused her wretched behavior. She wore no bonnet or warm travel cloak. One blanket she had draped around her shoulders and crossed over her chest. A second covered her legs and feet. There didn’t appear to be another.
Pressed against the Count’s solid body, Meg grew more uncomfortable. She began to feel that eyes might be watching from the windows of a certain house behind her.
“Well,” he said. “I am certainly not cold.”
“Good,” Meg said in a small voice.
He swung off his cloak and enveloped her in it. It dragged the ground—a fact he obviously noted since he swept her into his arms and deposited her in the coach.
What if Sibyl were watching? What if the entire household at Number 7 were watching? They would not know that the Princess was already in the coach.
“Comfortable?” Jean-Marc asked. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the brief but pleasant—and totally self-indulgent—process of putting her in the coach.
“Very,” Meg told him. But he reached in to wrap first one side, then the other side of the cloak about her. And with each move he stroked it over her body. An absolutely unconscious and unimportant incident, of course.
She glowed. She glowed just beneath her skin—all of her skin. It felt wonderfully wicked.
In he climbed, and the coachman put up the steps and closed the door.
The girl radiated life, Jean-Marc thought. Life and health and—passion? Yes, there was a passion in her. He leaned toward her, beckoning. “Lend me your ear,” he said when she bent forward.
Meg pulsated. She felt his breath on her face, knew his lips were barely distant from her ear. She wiggled a little on her seat.
Jean-Marc chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. The young baggage. She might not be aware of herself as a woman—rather she might not have been aware of herself as a woman—but this day’s new events had clearly awakened something in her. He could feel her responding to him.
Why would he laugh at her, Meg wondered? Her breasts pressed against the neckline of her dress—and they stung. How so? Not that the stinging was unpleasant, quite the reverse. But, really.
She could smell his fresh linen, feel the power in him….
Jean-Marc placed a hand on the back of her neck and whispered, “I have the greatest faith in you. I should have been a little less protective of Désirée and explained that she covers a loving nature with her sharp tongue. Will you forgive me for my omission?”
She bowed her head and was almost certain his mouth grazed her temple. Oh, my, how very extraordinary. How very…delicious. How dreadful she was. If she wasn’t careful, he would know she found him so interesting and he would be insulted.
“Will you forgive me, Miss Smiles?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course, My Lord. And I shall do my utmost to please you in every way.”
Would she now? What a very stimulating thought. “Thank you, my dear. And I shall attempt to assist you in your efforts.”
“You will?”
She had unconsciously turned her arresting eyes up to his. “I will,” he said, smiling at her. “We should be away. Otherwise we shall give Mrs. Floris less time than she requires to complain about unexpected guests. The woman is quite the tyrant over such things.
”
Meg had no idea who this tyrant might be, but she laughed with the Count, and enjoyed his adjustment of the cloak at her neck.
Jean-Marc rapped the roof sharply with his crop. The coach jolted, and with a clanging of tack and hoofs, and the sound of wheels grinding on cobbles, it moved on.
Meg swayed toward him and he put out a hand to steady her.
A sideways glance through the window confirmed her fears. Several faces watched from the parlor at Number 7B Mayfair Square.
They would talk. They would speculate about what they had seen, and upon her return would besiege her with questions.
At last she’d be a woman of mystery. How perfectly wonderful.
5
Spivey here.
Ow! That hurt. This is absolutely beyond all. I have always excelled at anything I have attempted, you know. To be foiled in tasks that should be as simple as deciding where one wants to be, and being there, is infuriating. I am bruised. Imagine that—bruised. How can that be? Well, I suppose it can’t actually be. I feel bruised because I must remember how being bruised used to feel.
Bumping into a stone wall and bouncing to the flagway. How mortifying. I have to get into Number Seventeen and look around and I need to do so at once.
I have never failed at a single undertaking. Except in the matter of controlling my family. And in the, er, advanced maneuvers associated with my present state. I will not falter at either, do you hear me?
Up the steps I go again. Hmm, not perfect. Somewhat bumpy, but passable. I must work on my gliding techniques. One would think that would be easy when one can’t keep one’s feet on the ground anyway. Not so. Why—gadzooks! Oh, oh, I almost tipped upside down. Really, I paid handsomely for that ghastly female instructor to teach me all the necessary skills. Mary, who would be queen of England as well as Scotland. Charlatan. I’ve heard whisperings that she became a pauper at the end of, well, at the end. Cost her everything she had to bribe jailers for small favors. Jailers in the Tower. There for treason against Elizabeth One, of course. Naturally that was why she taught me without ever actually moving at all. She said she held still in order to keep a good head on her shoulders—as if she needed to explain.
All Smiles Page 5